


I Shall Weather the Storm

by RommieCoudray



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, One Shot, Romantic Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-03-10 10:59:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3287801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RommieCoudray/pseuds/RommieCoudray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Haven is destroyed, The Herald believed dead.  Alone on watch duty, Cullen allows himself to think about the implications her death will have on the Inquisition, and (more terrifyingly) on himself. </p><p>This was a response to a prompt posted on the Dragon Age Origins Alistair Fanclub page on Facebook. Told from Cullen's POV, the prompter requested to see Cullen finding the Inquisitor in the snow after Haven, refusing to leave her side until she woke, and realizing his budding feelings for her. I hope I did Mr. Angsty pants justice ;) </p><p>Oneshot!</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Shall Weather the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> Of course, the basic disclaimer-- I don't own anything you see here. A few lines of dialogue are pulled straight from the game, and the title is from the Chant of Light, all of which belong to the lovely people that came up with them.

When Cullen joined the Inquisition, he had thought he was finally on the right path, a path that would be free of the crippling regrets that plagued his past. Apparently, he’d been wrong. 

It was hard to marry the warring emotions—relief that so many had made it away from Haven; anxiety about the future; grief for those lost; and a bit of self-loathing for the way things had come to pass. 

If only they’d had more time, he could have thought of another way… 

He heaved a heavy sigh, pacing the small opening that led to their pitiful camp, watching the burning valley where Haven lay with a keen eye. It had been quiet there, too quiet, for too long. No sign of the archdemon that had been raging in the sky when they had fled, no Elder One…did that mean that their foe had succeeded? Was the Herald gone from them? 

He had been so cold, so detached, when she’d offered to stay behind. He hadn’t even considered any alternatives, not that he was sure there were any alternatives to be found, even now. Still, a tight and unpleasant knot of guilt had taken root deep within him, and it only wound tighter as time passed. 

He heard footsteps, his years of training making his ears sensitive to even the smallest noise, the subtle crunching of snow from afar. He drew his sword, torn between dread and hope at what approached. He ran forward, ready to fight any enemy that threatened his charges. The snow blocked his vision—but he could just make out the shadows of three forms trudging toward him. 

“Declare yourselves!” he shouted. 

“It’s just us, Curly,” Varric said, stepping into the flickering light reflected from the campfires, the shadows from the snow swirling around him dissipating. Sera and Iron Bull were behind him. 

Cullen lowered his blade. “The Herald?” he asked. 

“She told us to run,” Bull explained. “She—“ Bull was interrupted by the sudden groan of heavy rocks moving against each other, the crackling of snow sliding. They all turned, looking to one of the peaks that shadowed Haven. 

It looked as though the whole mountain was moving in the twilight, but Cullen knew that it was only the face—that had been their plan. One last avalanche. She’d done it. He watched boulders roll and the snow that covered the peak as it rolled forward, destroying everything it its path. He squinted into the near darkness, almost sure for a moment that he saw a dragon take flight, but not trusting his eyes in the haze. 

“Well, that’s that then, innit?” Sera asked, a frown pulling at the corners of her mouth. She pushed past Iron Bull and Varric, her bow still in her hand, and joined the camp. 

“She saved us all,” Varric said softly, following Sera. 

“I need a drink” Bull grumbled. 

Somewhere, deep in the back of his mind, Cullen knew he should follow; a compelling numbness had settled over him as anxiety had washed out, filling the void it left. He could not find the will or the strength to make his limbs move. The knot of guilt in his gut seemed to double in size, bringing with it a wave of nausea. 

Truly, she was gone, then. That avalanche surely would have buried the village, just as they’d planned. If she was near enough to the trebuchets, there could be no way for her to escape. There would be no rescue mission. The time for changing of minds was past—there was truly nothing to be done now but to pick up the pieces and attempt to carry on the mission. Cullen found that thought wearying. In that moment, he was forced to realize how much he had fed off of her energy, her strength, her determination, over the past few weeks. 

Suddenly, everything became too much. He longed for some way to solve things, an enemy that could be felled with his blade. He let out an angry scream and hit the craggy wall that protected the survivors with his bare fist. He left a smear of his own blood, nearly black in the darkness. He didn’t even feel the pain in light of the turmoil that boiled in his gut. 

“Cullen,” Josephine said from behind him, startling him. “Come back to the warmth of the fires. There is nothing more that you can do.” 

“No, someone must guard the camp, lest we be taken by surprise again.” 

“Surely Cassandra, or—“ 

“No, I will,” Cullen said firmly, looking over his shoulder at the ambassador. She looked as though she wanted to argue, but merely nodded and left him. 

He repositioned himself in the narrow opening between the rocks, and slid to sit where he could see, but remain unseen. 

In the stillness, the familiar claws of regret wound their way around his chest, threatening to push out all of the air. First Kinloch Hold, then Kirkwall, now the Inquisition. As he looked over his shoulder to survey what remained of their forces, their people, he couldn’t help but wonder at the fact that everything he touched turned to ash. Death, destruction, pain. Carnage. 

Maker help him, but he blamed himself. Somewhere in the logical art of his mind, he knew that none of these things were his fault. But that voice was very small and weak, easily overshadowed by guilt and doubt. His whole life had been daunted by this pain, this dark shadow of terrible events. Perhaps he was cursed. 

He chuckled mirthlessly to himself, pulling his knees closer to his chest to rest his arms on them. His hands shook, but not from the cold, or even the lyrium withdrawals. Even that pain had become a dull annoyance ant the edge of his consciousness. 

How had it come to pass that he’d grown to care for her so much in such a short period of time? Because now he was forced to face it, when it was too late, when it no longer mattered—she had become important to him. Their playful flirtations in the training yard had been a welcome distraction from his duties, taking his mind off of the heavy weight of the responsibilities of his position. There was no point denying it even to himself; he had found himself attracted to her. When he considered the fact that he would never hear her musical laugh, never again see her eyes twinkle mischievously, he simply didn’t feel strong enough to carry on. 

It was ridiculous; they were fighting a war, there would be no denying that now. Death was part of war, and he’d seen plenty of death before. But suddenly, with the loss of one vivacious, energetic, young woman, none of it mattered. It seemed like hopeless foundering. What was the point?

He was so absorbed in his own thought that he almost didn’t hear it—slow, quiet footsteps crunching through the settling now, the chattering of teeth. 

He leapt to his feet, not daring to hope. Surely, this was The Elder One coming to destroy the last of them, to finish what he had started in the valley. There could have been no chance she survived. 

He glanced behind, seeing Cassandra out of the corner of his eye; he gestured to her, and pointed into the dark chasm. She joined him, silently unsheathing her sword. He held up one finger as he inched around the rock wall that protected them, hand at the hilt of his own sword. 

He expected to see the tall imposing figure, riddled with corruption that he had only caught a glance of in Haven. “There!” he warned Cassandra, finally seeing a silhouette—one much smaller than he anticipated. The familiar set of the shoulders, the defiant posture… At once, he recognized her. Trevelyan. “It’s her!” he shouted, hardly daring to believe, and rushed forward. 

“Thank the Maker!” Cassandra exclaimed, her footsteps thundering next to his own. Cassandra’s words echoed the relief that pulsed through him like a second heartbeat. He watched as time itself seemed to slow, and The Herald’s fragile body collapsed into the snow. 

He was the first to reach her—he hadn’t bothered to slow himself, instead letting his legs fall out from under him, his momentum causing him to slide on his knees. 

She was unconscious-- whether from exhaustion or injury he was uncertain—but it was most definitely her. Her skin was frighteningly pale, her lips blue in the moonlight. Involuntary shivers shook her limp frame. 

“Herald,” he said breathlessly, barely more than a whisper as he lifted her shoulders out of the snow. 

“We must warm her,” Cassandra said suddenly, from his left side. 

Without a word, he removed his fur pauldrons and draped them over her small shoulders and lifted her into his arms like a child. 

Two Inquisition soldiers rushed forward, their hands flailing, looking for some way to help. “I’ve got her. Run ahead, warn them we’re coming. And stoke the fires,” Cullen commanded, tucking the Herald closer to his chest, suddenly wishing he wasn’t wearing armor so he could offer his body heat. 

Cassandra walked in silence beside him, her quick stride matching his own swift steps. A few times he thought he saw her look furtively at him through her thick eyelashes, but he kept his eyes pointed towards the camp. 

As he held her in his arms, relief threatened to wash over him, but he held it at bay. Yes, she was alive, but only just, and she could be pulled to a darker fate all too easily, especially if they could not warm her quickly enough. He cringed. If she had survived the Elder One only to freeze to death—no, he wouldn’t allow it. 

As they approached the camp, Solas rushed up to them. “Give her to me,” he demanded. 

“No,” Cullen snapped, his distrust for the apostate dripping from the word. Usually he was more tactful, but he didn’t have the time or desire to censure his tongue at the moment. He pushed past Solas to the nearest fire, kneeling to the ground and leaning into the warmth and light without loosening his grip on the woman in his arms. 

Mother Giselle was barking orders to anyone who would listen, “Melt snow and warm it in the fires, bring me as many blankets as you can spare.” 

“Commander, I must examine her,” Solas snapped, stomping into the arm circle cast by the flames. 

Cullen narrowed his eyes. “It can wait until she’s warm.” 

“The Commander is right,” Mother Giselle said, approaching with her team of would-be assistants. 

“Her mark,” Solas said helplessly, gesturing toward it. Cullen looked down, noticing it glowing fiercely for the first time. Normally, it was subtle, barely visible. But now… it looked harsh. Wild. Angry.

“It has been disturbed somehow. Lest you forget, I was the only thing that kept it from killing her to begin with.” 

“I’m afraid for the time being, the cold is the greater threat,” Cassandra barked. Pragmatic, as always. Cullen told her a silent thank you. Solas nodded, taking several steps back. 

“I can take it from here,” Mother Giselle said, resting a kind hand on Cullen’s shoulder. 

“I would rather stay, if it is all the same to you, Mother,” he said, his eyes not leaving Trevelyan’s face. 

“Very well “ Mother Giselle said, bowing her head slightly. She quickly began her work, filling water skins with warm water. 

Cullen set her on top of a blanket near the fire’s warmth, and sat on the ground with her. He crossed his legs, and set her head in his lap, examining her face. 

The smattering of freckles that were subtle and endearing in the daylight stood out starkly against her ghostly skin, terrifying reminders of her dire condition. He took some comfort in the fact that she was still shivering; he had seen enough cold in the Ferelden winters of his childhood to know that when the shivering stopped, the real trouble began. Mother Giselle quickly covered her with the remaining blankets, strategically placing her warm water skins around Trevelyan’s core. 

It truly was a wonder she had survived t all, he realized. She had wandered through the ice and wind for Maker knows how long, with only cloth and light leathers protecting her from the bitter cold. 

Time blurred. How long did they sit there, Mother Giselle fidgeting with water skins, Cullen staring into the empty face in his lap? Several times, friends and strangers offered to take Cullen’s place, allow him rest. Each time, he refused. The camp slowly gathered around them, breath bated. She was only a woman, but to these people she was everything. Their cause, their future. 

It was far too easy to lose her behind the grandeur of “The Herald of Andraste.” It was too easy to forget that she was a person, a young woman. Cullen was just as guilty as any of those surrounding them; in the weeks past, she had become an enigma to him, more purpose and symbol than person. She didn’t make it any easier. She had a twisted sense of nobility and duty, almost as self destructive as his own. She always volunteered to rush into danger, and now had gone so far as to offer herself as a sacrifice to save others… But looking at her now, he was forcefully reminded of just how fragile she really was. Dark, damp strands of her red hair clung to her face. He gently pushed them away with the pad of his thumb. 

Her eyelashes fluttered. 

Relief swooped through his chest, like a giant, ungainly bird. “She’s waking up,” he announced. Her eyelids scrunched at the sound of his voice. 

“Herald?: Mother Giselle asked. Finally, the heavy eyelids lifted, revealing her violet eyes, as bright and sharp as he remembered. She took a moment to focus on his face, which still hovered over her own. 

“Cullen?” she asked, a smile spreading over her delicate features. His heart gave a sharp thud in his chest, even as he silently chided himself. Of course she was pleased to see him; if he lived, that meant the villagers she had almost given her life to save had survived as well. 

“Hello, Herald,” he said, smirking down at her. 

“Wait, where are we?” she asked suddenly, her sleepy smile replaced instantly with fear and panic and she tried to sit up and look around. 

He grabbed her shoulders and pinned her firmly. “Safe,” he said simply. 

Not having the strength to fight him, she settled back into his lap. “The Elder One—Corypheus?” she asked. 

“Gone, so far as we can tell. For now.” She nodded, the feeble tension in her weak muscles dissipating. 

A particularly violent shudder wracked her. “It occurs to me that mage’s robes do not provide the best protection from blizzards,” she joked. 

“I’ll get the tailors on that,” Cullen said. 

“Am…am I wearing your pauldrons?” she asked, noticing the fur around her shoulders. 

“Yes,” he said, with a light chuckle. 

“They’re warm,” she said sleepily, her eyelids drooping again. 

“Then hang on to them, for now,” he said. “And rest, you need to regain your strength.” She nodded, eyes closed. “Mother Giselle and Solas are going to examine you,” he explained, lifting her head off of his lap and sliding a bed roll underneath her to act as a pillow so he could stand. He tried to ignore her grumble of protest. 

Now that she was awake, talking, he felt secure in leaving her, although he didn’t want to. And, though he was loath to admit it, Solas needed to look at her mark. Something wasn’t quite right, and he was the only one with any knowledge on the matter. 

As he stood and walked away, he realized that over the course of the last few hours, everything had changed. The war they were fighting, what little authority the Inquisition had garnered, and perhaps the most worrisome, himself. 

In that brief moment alone in the snow, when he thought all had been lost, he had allowed himself to feel without thinking, without fear of repercussions. And in that moment, his entire world had shifted on its axis. There was no going back now; he had let himself acknowledge his feelings for her. The only question left was how to keep them from interfering with their purpose, their mission. For now more than ever, nothing was clearer than the fact that nothing could stand in their way, for they were the only ones who could stop this dread from devouring all of Thedas. 

He took one last look over his shoulder, watching Solas prod at Trevelyan’s hand as she explained to those gathered what had happened. Perhaps, he mused, if he was very lucky, his mission wouldn’t be quite as lonely as he had originally anticipated.


End file.
